


Regret

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Servamp (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Guilt, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8839300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Mikuni doesn’t expect gratitude, doesn’t expect approval; better to know that he’s done what he needed to do, that he can walk away with the burden of his own sins heavy but no heavier now than when he began." Mikuni doesn't regret his decisions, but there are times he's more grateful for them than others.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glueskin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/gifts).



Mikuni isn’t expecting thanks.

He never does. He’s never received gratitude before for any of the things he should or should not have done; he long ago gave up on hoping for recognition from others, long ago turned his back on the expectation of appreciation in favor of living in accordance with his own judgment. His judgment is the only one he can trust, after all; it might not be accurate, and he’s sure it’s biased, but at least his bias make sense to him. He can trust himself to make decisions he can live with, and in the end it’s his own choices that he must move forward with. So he doesn’t expect gratitude, doesn’t expect approval; better to know that he’s done what he needed to do, that he can walk away with the burden of his own sins heavy but no heavier now than when he began.

“Hey!”

The voice brings Mikuni up short. One moment he’s walking forward, his feet marking out the rhythm of his forward action for him; the next he’s stopped as still as if he’ll never move again, his whole body frozen as if that one word snapped in a familiar voice is enough to drop a noose around his throat and cinch pressure tight against his skin. He supposes it is, in a way; the fact that the rope goes unseen does nothing to mitigate the very real effect of its presence.

Mikuni turns slowly. He knows what’s waiting for him, knows there’s no sense in trying to run from this confrontation even if he cared to; in the seconds it takes him to shift his weight and turn his body around he feels that burden on his shoulders, wonders if it’s more anticipation or dread running so solid in his veins. He thinks they’re nearly tied, or so close to sharing dominance that it makes no difference; and it does make no difference, in the end, because he’s turning anyway, he’s turned, and there he is, just as Mikuni has so often imagined.

Misono is taller than he remembers. He knew that would be true, of course -- time is hardly going to stand still for his younger brother any more than it has for himself -- but there’s a difference between thinking something over rationally and seeing it in person, and another thing entirely between seeing it at some distance and having the evidence right in front of him. Mikuni still has the advantage of height -- he’s over a head taller than Misono stands, at least as yet -- but there’s a strength to Misono’s shoulders that all Mikuni’s far-off observations have never let him see, or that maybe wasn’t there at all until now. His eyes are dark, his expression fixed; his jaw is set into a line as if he’s bracing himself to do something unpleasant, or to take some necessary step forward that he hasn’t at all decided he actually wants to do.

Mikuni can sympathize.

“You,” Misono starts, biting off the word with so much force that it lands as if it’s an insult. “I need to talk to you.”

“Misono,” Mikuni says, aiming for something almost-a-laugh in the back of his throat and tasting nothing but desperation on his tongue. He can feel Jeje’s eyes on him, can feel the judgment of the other’s attention sticking to his shoulders. “What can I help you with, dear brother?”  
“Nothing!” Misono snaps, the tension in his expression collapsing to outright anger for a moment; for a heartbeat Mikuni thinks Misono is going to launch himself over the distance between them, is going to curl the fragility of his fingers into a fist and let loose a punch to bruise against the side of Mikuni’s face. For a moment he almost hopes for it. But Misono ducks his head instead of kicking himself forward, his hair falling heavy to shadow over his features so Mikuni can’t see his eyes; all Mikuni can see of him for a moment is his mouth twisting, tension working over his lips like he’s fighting back some speech or struggling with an excess of emotion too great to be calmly borne. Mikuni blinks, his own facade of amusement cracking against lines of concern; and then Misono lifts his head again, and looks straight at Mikuni.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice clear and precise in spite of the strain under the words. His gaze is steady, his eyes unflinching; Mikuni feels more like he’s been slapped than if Misono’s palm had actually cracked against his face. “I’m grateful.”

Mikuni gapes at Misono for a moment. He looks like an idiot, he knows he must, staring at his estranged half-brother with a head full of pretty speeches and a tongue empty of anything but blank shock; but for a moment that’s all he can manage to offer, all he can make sense of in the echoing space of his head. Misono is in front of him, Misono is close enough to touch, to hold, to-- and he’s _thanking_ Mikuni, giving voice to gratitude Mikuni never expected or anticipated, even in the wildest of his fantasies.

There’s a span of silence. Mikuni stares uncomprehendingly at Misono; Misono stares right back, his jaw set on determination and his eyes dark with attention. Mikuni can almost feel the friction of a rope sliding smooth over his neck.

“For which part?” he finally manages.

Misono’s whole face goes scarlet at once. “For _Shirota_ ,” he says, his voice skidding and cracking over the syllables. “Not for--for training Shirota. For helping us. For helping us _now_ , not. Not then.” He ducks his head again, his hair shadowing his eyes once more. “I’m not talking about then.”

Mikuni can feel pressure at his throat, the familiar slide of that rope bearing down at his windpipe to threaten his breathing with strain he can’t shake off. His smile cracks over his face, breaking through that brief moment of shocked disbelief that froze him still for a heartbeat; when he laughs it’s shrill in his throat, he can feel it warbling up towards the bright edge of hysteria before he can close his mouth on the sound.

“Of course,” he says, and reaches up to push his hat back off his forehead as he grins at Misono. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I didn’t do it for your gratitude, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Shut up,” Misono snaps at him. “I didn’t ask _why_ you did it. I’m thanking you myself, it has nothing to do with you.”

“Ah.” Mikuni tips his head, considers the set of Misono’s shoulders, the line of his mouth, the angle of his jaw. “Well then. You’ve thanked me. You can consider your burden lifted.” He shifts his weight back, starts to turn to walk away into the nighttime shadows around them. “I’ll see you around sometime.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Misono says, and his voice is a lash, his words are a leash, Mikuni’s whole body seizes tight on the command in that one word. “I’m not done.”

Mikuni looks sideways at Misono. He wants to turn away, wants to hide his face behind the cover of his shoulder to protect himself from those too-bright eyes; but Misono told him to wait, Misono _ordered_ him to stillness, and all he can do is hold still and wait for more.

“Misono,” he says, and he knows the name is going too-soft at his lips, he can taste affection bleeding too clearly through the sound, but he can’t hold it back any more than he could keep walking after Misono told him not to. “You really are becoming the heir to the Alcien house, aren’t you?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Misono says again, and Mikuni shuts his mouth, lets silence stand in place of his voice for Misono’s consideration. He can feel ghostly pressure against his throat, the weight of the past flickering to life in the shadows around him to bear down on his shoulders, to carry the weight in Misono’s stare to tense the tighter at his throat. Jeje makes a sound behind him, something very nearly a laugh, Mikuni thinks, but even that isn’t enough to pull his attention away from Misono, standing so straight and tall and proud, so entirely everything Mikuni has ever wanted to see him become. Misono glares at Mikuni, his eyes snapping electric over the distance between them; and then he takes a step forward, and all Mikuni’s body goes taut at once.

“I’m not thanking you for then,” he says, and he’s coming closer, the distance between them is shrinking and Mikuni can do nothing to stop it, all he can do is stand still and stare as his brother comes closer to him than he’s been in years, since they were children and Mikuni’s breath never caught to choke him with the weight of his sins. “That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.” He’s striding closer at speed, his footsteps tapping out a rhythm against the pavement, and Mikuni can’t walk away and he can’t turn to face Misono, all he can do is stand still and stare as the other steps closer to him.

Misono stops right in front of Mikuni. He’s close enough to touch, if Mikuni could move enough to lift his hand; he could stretch out and drop his arm around the other’s shoulders, if he were able to convince his body to obey him instead of clinging to the order of Misono’s voice. But Mikuni might as well be stone for how much action he is able to take, so he just stands and stares while Misono frowns up at him. There’s a pause, a moment when Misono’s gaze flickers like he’s turning something over in the back of his mind; and then movement, an arm lifting to reach out, and then Misono’s fingers are curving against the back of Mikuni’s neck, and Mikuni is gasping an inhale like he’s been shocked, and Misono is speaking with more force under his words than Mikuni has ever heard from his brother before.

“I _am_ grateful,” he says, and then he’s shifting, his weight rocking up onto his toes as he pulls hard against the hand he has at the back of Mikuni’s neck. Mikuni tips sideways and down, his whole body capitulating to the force of delicate fingers pressing warm against his skin, and then there’s contact at the corner of his mouth, a pull of friction just against the curve of his lips, and everything goes shockingly, stunningly silent for a heartbeat’s worth of time. Mikuni’s breathing stops, his heart freezes still inside his chest; and close, so close he can barely see, the dark of Misono’s lashes dip and settle against his cheeks as he shuts his eyes. Mikuni stays still, unmoving, unthinking, barely breathing; and then Misono pulls back, and his lashes flutter open, and he looks back up to meet Mikuni’s stare.

“That,” he says, and his voice gives way, breaking sharp in the middle like it’s cracking under too much force. He presses his lips together tightly, his cheeks flame to crimson; against the back of his neck Mikuni can feel Misono’s fingers tighten in warning against so much as breathing the suggestion of laughter. Mikuni doesn’t laugh. Mikuni doesn’t think he can remember how to speak. Misono ducks his head, clears his throat hard, and goes on speaking with his face still shadowed by his hair. “That _isn’t_ a thank you.” His fingers tighten against Mikuni’s skin, just for a moment, like he’s trying to press his fingerprints against the back of the other’s neck. Mikuni wants to laugh at the idea that he won’t carry the weight of Misono’s touch with him all his life.

Mikuni’s throat is tight, his heart is pounding. He doesn’t mean to speak, doesn’t mean to give voice to any of the too-precious air rattling inside the space of his lungs; but his lips part for him, shaped to sensitivity by the press of Misono’s mouth, and when he exhales the breath carries the whisper of “Thank you” against it, gratitude slipping past his lips with as much force as if it’s a sob.

Misono looks back up at him sharply. It’s as if he thinks Mikuni might be mocking him, might be making light of the action Misono just offered, as if the gift he has given isn’t infinitely more than Mikuni deserves, than Mikuni hoped for, than Mikuni ever expected to experience. Mikuni would offer reassurance if he could, would give voice to the ache of appreciation in his chest if he knew how to fit words around it; but his expression is enough all on its own, judging from the way Misono’s scowl eases into surprised softness as he blinks up at Mikuni staring back at him. His gaze skims Mikuni’s features, tracing over his eyes, the arch of his cheekbones, the line of his nose; it lingers for a moment at his mouth, settling into place as Misono’s cheeks flush pink again with self-consciousness. And then Misono takes a breath, and tips his shoulders back, and his hand at the back of Mikuni’s neck slides away as easily at it came to land there.

“That’s all,” he says, all regal self-possession even with the damp of Mikuni’s mouth clinging to his lips, with the heat of friction staining the line of his cheekbones. “Good night.” And he’s turning, he’s leaving, he’s walking away with that same sure stride, and Mikuni can feel his throat close off as surely as if Misono has wound the other end of that inevitable noose around his wrist.

“Wait,” Mikuni chokes out, a strangled sound marked by straining panic. Misono pauses, turns his head to look back over his shoulder without shifting his feet. Mikuni licks his lips, struggles himself forward in pursuit of coherency. “Will you see me again?”

Misono’s lashes flutter, just a moment, the dark shift of a butterfly’s wings dipping over pale skin. “Someday,” he says, and then he turns away again, and keeps walking, and this time Mikuni doesn’t try to stop him with word or action. It’s enough to watch him go, to fill his lungs with air and feel the cool of it sliding down his raw throat, enough to feel his skin prickling all-over with the adrenaline of an unexpected reprieve.

Mikuni can feel the burden of his sins upon his shoulders, can feel the pressure of that illusory rope still wound tight around his neck and just waiting for the day when it will pull suddenly taut. He doesn’t care. For Misono, he’d do it all a hundred times over without regret.


End file.
